CHAOS
by iSackettEcho
Summary: Picking up where The Dark Knight left off, a fanfic from the Joker's perspective on being the villian... and his take on jailbreaks...  First submitted for a villian fanfic contest on DeviantArt


In a word: Chaos.

It is that delightfully vicious subject sneered at by mankind, left unembraced by the most intelligent of God's creatures. It is that hideous word that all mankind fears, shut away from in their grotesque institutions and orthodox religions. It is that wonderful disposition that sets the world on a helter kilter and laughs as the parade marches by!

Why so small-minded they fear it? What is so spectacularly great about _the plan_ that they follow it unerringly to their **demise**? Chaos; why do they hide away from it? It is deliciously fun!

Ahahahahahahahaha!

Allow me to present you with an example:

.if i break the rules of cordiality and chew with my mouth open at the dining table in one of Bruce Wayne's renowned restaurants, the painted ladies and pruned men are horrifieD

?does the chewing really matter so mucH .children on one side of the world have swollen bellies without anything in their mouths to cheW

!if i play with explosives, and introduce them to a hospital ward, it is totally mayheM

?what's so bad about a bomB .such fun it is to watch as they scurrying about like ants upon whose hill a child has ground beneath his heeL.

.but it's not part of _the plan_, you seE

.they go wild if it is not part of the plaN

?are you annoyed because I refuse to stick to the grammar plaN…

?are you appalled and screaming in wildly mad shrieks because the plan has been flipped upside dowN

What is so bad about uPsIdE dOwN?

What if I write without rhyme or reason? For like till tock in my open dock over rainbows and under dells around red lights in murdering fantasies.

Waht if I wtrie wiohtut crorcet selplnig?

What if I write

without paying attention to paragraph structure

or alignment?

What if I write in unparalleled paradoxes of words and symbols? The world is round, but people are square.

Ahahahahahahaha! None more square than BATMAN!

I am the circle; he is the square! Perfect paradox, you see! T'nod uoy ees?

Batman is a self-righteous, self-proclaimed hero. He cuts quite the extraordinary figure, all in black.

Me? I really _am_ the extraordinary figure. My mind has been unbound and set free to understand the world from a new pErSpEcTiVe.

Batman has self-appointed himself as a hero, the Protector of Gotham!

Well, it is my self-appointed position to reveal to close-minded idiots like himself that he is in fact nothing more than a self-disillusioned creep dressed in an all too tight black BAT suit.

Such fun, such fun! Whatever shall I do if Batman ceases? No more toys, no more games. Such fun, such fun! Humor till the end, I tell you!

Oh… are you angry that I write with "you"s?

Such fun, such fun, I tell you! Upset _the plan_, introduce a little anarchy, and even grammar fails. Set the psychos free upon the gerundial phrases, the adjectives, the prepositions; set them free from the Arkham Asylum and watch the grammar Nazis burn!

Ahahahahaha!

What's so important about writing anyway? What is so important about communication?

Ah, but you see, it is all part of _the_ _plan_.

People think that they shall just DIE without _the plan_. Imbeciles. Incognitive fools.

Alright, alright, I shall use words, follow convention for just this once and use _the_ _plan _you imbeciles named GRAMMAR back in your prehistoric caves of literary infancy, so that you may finally well understand **the plan**.

Let's go backwards before going forwards, shall we? Three months ago I was tossed into this all too claustrophobic-inducing, white-washed stone cell in Arkham Asylum's high security ward—a ward for the exceptionally criminally genius, such as myself. And so, for the last several months, I have sat back and leisurely watched as our aforementioned self-disillusioned hero takes the blame for the truly psychotically criminal: Two Face. Now, _he_ was quite the game—corrupting the White Knight, one of Gotham's finest! It really has been such fun watching Batman play the villain—so self righteous and so incorruptible that he is even willing to take up the visage of villain willing to save Gotham. The Dark Knight: such an immovable force… Such delusion! Such irony! Such unadulterated fun!

Now, fast forwarding back to present day time…. As fun as it has been watching the self-righteous destroy themselves, I grow tired of _just_ watching. I have watched for some time, laughed at him as he struggled, but now it is finally time to up the game, raise the stakes! Give him a little help, perhaps, from his old pal the Joker. Oh, the games I will play! Such fun it will be! Such fun! Ahahahahahahaha!

Now, allow me to set the stage, introduce **the plan**:

_Enter stage left, Harleen Quinze, a.k.a. Harley, my psychiatrist. She is wearing a red and white stripped jester outfit, complete curl-tipped elf shoes and bells on the ends of the jester hood._

_Set design consists of a small cell comprised completely of whitewashed cement blocks, an iron metal slab for a bed, a metal toilet, and a white-washed metal door with a peek-through barred window. Outside the cell is a corridor lined with similar white-washed metal doors with barred peek-though holes._

_Enter stage right, nameless guard with too much fat around his stomach and too much hair everywhere for him to get any other guard job besides guarding the hideously insane—it's okay for the hideously insane to stare at the hideously ugly all day long._

Guard: _[Whistles] _Why, hello, Miss Quinzel.

Harley: Why, it's Ms. Quinzel, not Miss. Having been married and divorced ought to get some sort of recognition!

Guard: Why are you dressed up so funny?

Harley: Oh, you know, there is the big parade happening over in Gotham Square today! I'm heading there right after I drop this off.

Guard: Are you in it or something?

Harley: Uh-huh.

Guard: What is it that you've got there today, Ms. Quinzel? You know you aren't allowed to bring things in to the prisoners.

Harley: Oh, but it's the Joker's birthday.

Guard: No can do, ma'am.

Harley: Oh, it's just a cake! What could really happen? The whole psych ward blow up? _[A pause] _Really, it's just me, after all! You know I'd never do a thing like that.

Guard: Oh, alright. Just don't tell anyone I let you do this. I wouldn't want to lose my job.

Harley: Oh, thank you! You are the best! You really should be named Guard of the Month!

_Nameless Guard puffs up with pride._

_Food slot in white-washed iron door opens, and a cake box is slid through. _

_Exit Harley and Guard._

Quitting the theatrics. Back to reality.

Stuck to the top of the box is a note from Harley written in red ink:

_Happy Birthday, Joker._

_See you _soon_._

_Love, Harley._

I would indeed see her soon.

I greedily grabbed at the box, ripping open the lid to reveal a bright pink birthday cake covered with extra pink icing. Just the way I like it!

Shoving my hands into the cold icing, I searched until I found it… my razor blade. I nearly screamed with glee at the sight of it, still dripping with pink cake icing. I whipped the blade clean on my psychiatric ward issued pin-dotted pajamas.

Pressing my face against the bars of the peep hole window in my door, I hailed the guard.

You dropped your keys.

Shut up!

I told you, you dropped your keys.

No, I didn't.

Yes, you did.

I have them right here, fool!

Then how come I see them lying on the floor over there.

Where?

Over there.

I have them right here, you psycho!

Where? I don't see them.

Right here!

And he held them up, close to the bars I was looking through. Fast as lightning, I snatched the keys from his hands. "Ahahahahaha!" I laughed, taunting him and retreating back the five feet to the back of my cell. "Idiot's lost his keys!" I screeched.

Just as I expected, he punched the door lock button open to my cell. The door slid open with the faint sound of sighing hydraulics. The guard lumbered in, looking like a steam engine that had jumped its tracks. I dodged to the slide, swept under his arm, and jumped on his back, locking him in a choke hold.

Such a fun fight that ensued! He slammed me against the wall a few times; I fell off once or twice, but he was too slow to keep me off. At last, I finally bored and produced my razor blade. Once he felt the pointed edge against his neck, he froze. I traced his jawline with the edge of the razor, drawing it down his neck to rest on his double chin neck.

"You see these scars?" I said, gesturing at my mouth. "Do you wanna know how I got these scars," I asked, watching his pupils dilate with fear as I gestured with my razor near his face.

"You see, I began to tell him, "when I was a small boy, a very young, innocent, still fresh-with-life boy, my mother had another child." I paused, waiting for his fear to escalate, watching with fascination the beads of perspiration running down his forehead.

"But you see, she was never quite right, _up there_, after that," I explained, licking my lower lip and readjusting my grasp on him. "Your psychologists gave it the _term_ post partum depression. Such a simple word for the condition that turned her into the demonically psychotic person she became."

I stopped paying attention to the guard's fat, sweaty face—his priceless expression of absolute fear. I'd get back to his death scene in a moment, but for now, I was caught up in the moment, reliving the events as I painted the story and pressed the memory of her into my listener's heart.

"One day, you see, I came home from school. I got perfect marks on all my subjects. I ran into the house to show her. She was sitting by the window, looking out at the grey, stormy skies, a knife idle in her hands from the green apple she'd been pealing. She didn't move when I spoke to her. She didn't even acknowledge that I'd spoken. I frowned, angry that she ignored me. The baby was everything to her in her world now. She didn't need me anymore.

"So, I began to scream, 'Mother! Mother! I know you hate me! So stop pretending!'

"Do you know what she did then? Well, I'll tell you what she did then. She rose of from her chair. 'Why so _serious_?' she asked. Grabbing my face in her fingers, she slid the knife in her hand into my mouth. I still remember the feel of the blade as it clinked against my teeth. 'Let's put a smile on that face!'"

I slid my razor blade into the man's mouth, feeling his body tremble against mine in piteous fear and smelling the rank scent of human piss. "Let's put a smile on that face," I repeated _her_ words. The man struggled uselessly against me, nearly paralyzed with fear. I lowered my voice, dripping with sadistic, dark pleasure, "Let's put a smile on that face!"

He screamed a blood-curdling cry as the razor sliced through tender cheek muscles. He fell to his knees whimpering and clutching at his face. I swung again with my razor, and I swear I heard the pure sound of the zing of the metal as my razor passed through his corroded artery. His body fell lifeless to the floor in a puddle of oozing blood.

Murder. It really was quite the pastime.

Leaving the putrid dead body and the cramped cell behind me, I hastened down the hall. Something caught my eye near the guard station: my purple suit!

I wasted no time trading in my pin-dotted pajamas for the glory of purple silk! Did I mention that it was custom made? I relished the feel of silk sliding over my skin and the perfect fit of the fabric wrapping around my body.

Harley sauntered up to me then, giggling in her obnoxiously high pitched laugh.

Now, Harley—Harley was fun. Not as fun as Batman, of course. Harley was like the toy that a kid plays while he waits for his new toy to arrive. She had been absolute fun these past three dull, monotonous months. It was a fun little game, turning the psychiatric doctor into the psychiatric patient. But like an old toy, she was beginning to lose her luster and charm.

She ran her fingers over my scarred lips. "Hey, Boss! I did good, didn't I, boss?"

"Sure you did," I tossed over my shoulder as I turned away, hurrying down the hall. "Come," I growled back at Harley. I pulled the antique gold watch from my breast pocket. Timing is essential when following a PLAN. Snapping the watch shut, I strode down a corridor to the left.

"How do you know where you are going? I should lead the way!" Harley shrieked.

Ignoring her, I continued on until I found what I was looking for. Stopping at the door with the number 315, I peeked in through the bars. "Why so serious?" I asked the inmate.

The Scarecrow stood to his feet. "Let's put a smile on that face," I said, as I slid the key into the cell's door lock. He slipped out of his cell without a word, his hooded face saying more than words ever could.

"Joker, darling," I heard a whispery, seductive voice from behind me. The voice was like the sound of rustling leaves sliding over one another. "Let me come with you."

"Poison Ivy," I said with pleasant surprise at her recognition of me.

Harley threw herself against Poison Ivy's cell door. "He's mine, you poisonous wretch!" she screeched.

"Easy, my dear." I waved Harley away.

"Why don't you come over here closer, honey," Ivy's seductive voice whispered through the hole in her cell door. "Come over and tell me how you got those sexy scars."

I didn't have time for this, but I really couldn't pass up another game. Who would win? Her seductive tricks and chemicals or my frightening tales and razor blade? I licked my lower lip and began the story:

_When I was a little boy, my sister and I were in a bus accident. I have a little sister, did you know that? After the paramedics pulled us out of the crushed and twisted metal of the wreckage, I saw that my sister's face had been half blown off. Now, skin graphs and lots of surgeries made her look close to normal again, but one side of her face was still deformed. I, on the other hand, didn't have a scratch on my body. _

_One day, she came home from school and wouldn't stop crying, saying kids made fun of her for her face. I grabbed the butcher knife from the cutting block. I said, "Watch, sister! You won't be alone anymore!" _

_I slid the ice cold blade into my mouth and sliced it wide open. But instead of thanking me she screamed and ran from the room! She refused to even look at me. She was revolted by my appearance._

I suddenly grabbed Ivy's face through the bars and slid the blade into her mouth, contemplating what it would be like to slit those perfectly plump, red lips. Her vibrant green eyes were wide, but she only looked up at me expectantly, an expression dually like a star struck girl about to receive her first kiss and a predator that had caught its prey in it claws.

"Me, revolting!" I cried. "She, who was more deformed than me could hardly look upon my face! I, who slashed the blade through my own lips for her!"

I slowly removed the blade, unused, from Ivy's mouth and released her face. "What did you do to her then?" she sighed.

"What any man without a conscious would do," I said, leaving the answer hanging in the air.

Indeed, perhaps I really was a man born without a conscious, but then again, there are things even I won't do. Batman certainly thinks I have no conscious. I, however, prefer to think of myself as a man who saw black and white on a scale with a different balance. While everyone else tries to sort the grey areas into either black or white, I see the grey area as a free land, or as a trip into no man's land where I could cause all the political mayhem I so pleased! Ahahahahahaha!

"Let me out. Take me with you!" Poison Ivy pleaded seductively.

As much as I'd have liked to have seen the ensuing mayhem and the aftermath of a fight between her and Harley, I really did not have enough time if we were to continue on with **the plan**. I had thought over bringing Poison Ivy and her Bane along just for the fun of it, but I had decided that she would only just upset **the plan**.

Instead, I pivoted on my heel and strode away, ignoring her plea. Scarecrow jaunted silently along behind me. Harley wailed in surprise, and soon I heard her shuffling feet following close behind.

"Joker!" Ivy's venomous voice echoed down the hall after me. "If you do not let me out, I will hunt you down and drain the life from you and back into our Mother Earth!"

Ahahahahahahaha! Such fun, such fun!

"I want to make Batman suffer! Let me out," she screeched.

Well, plans were meant to be disrupted. At the end of the hall, before slipping out into the lobby of the psychiatric hospital, I switched the button that unlocked all the doors in the maximum security ward. Handy little switch that. I pity the fool who invented it; he won't have a job much longer. Not that it would matter after this.

Because of course, there could be no prison break without explosions. I wouldn't stand for it.

Nearing the doors, I did what I loved to do the most—Harley handed me a detonator and I pushed the big red button.

BOOM!

PSHWOOH!

CRASH!

Such lovely sounds as the security station disappeared into flame and smoke! Sounds of chaos and mayhem and anarchy—and freedom from _the plan_!

And so, together the three of us left Arkham Asylum, striding straight out the front glass doors and into broad daylight, easily blending into the parade as it passed by on its way to Gotham Square. Sometimes I really did amaze myself.

Batman, we shall meet again. _Very_ soon.

For I am the vIlLiAn!

Ahahahahahahahaha!

I am the villain, because I did not pick to stick to _the plan_.

Such glorious fun!

Such glorious fun only _playing _the villain!

What is a villain, anyway?

Villains just aren't part of _the plan_, you see.

CHAOS it the new **plan**…

?but following the plan is not part of the plan, now is iT…

Batman. Oh, Batman, I am coming for you! Ahahahahahahahahaha!


End file.
